


To Escape a Gilded Cage

by Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:12:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne/pseuds/Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Robb had listened to Catelyn and never sent Theon to Pyke? </p><p>What if Littlefinger hadn't arranged for Margaery's marriage to Joffrey? And what if she'd married Robb instead? </p><p>And what if Sansa had accepted Sandor's offer to flee the night of the Blackwater?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fleeing the Lion's Den

The Hound

 

Sandor Clegane didn’t look back once as he urged Stranger forward, leaving the Blackwater far behind him and the Little Bird, who rested ahead of him in the saddle. Leaving behind its fires, its terror, its horrible smoke, the pair was fleeing through the wilderness, flying away to somewhere else, anywhere else. Where they would go, he couldn't imagine. With so much wine coursing through his veins he wasn’t going to be doing much planning tonight. It was all he could do to focus on getting as far away from the capital as possible.

The two of them had been gone for perhaps two hours, maybe three. It was so much a rush of fear and confusion that Sandor couldn’t tell.  _Not enough_ _._ Of that much, at least, he could be certain.

The Little Bird clung to him tightly, silent as the forest about them, with a blank expression upon her face. She had initially been as fearful as he still was, but the fright had gone from her eyes a while ago. If anything, she looked drowsy. Exhausted, not scared. Her eyelids were drooping slightly, her pretty head slowly drifting forward. She buried her face in his chest, closing her eyes and yawning lightly. When she began to slip to the right, he put one arm around her, making sure to keep the other firmly on the reins as Stranger continued at top speed. How she could sleep at a time like this, Sandor couldn’t say, but it felt good to hold her there.

They pressed on.

Night slowly gave way to dawn, and soon dawn in turn became day. Stranger had started to complain of their pace a little while ago, slowing down unbidden, and by mid-morning Sandor decided that with the Little bird now stirring it was time to pause. They couldn’t stay anywhere long, but he could he stay awake forever either, and on top of that the wine from last night was beginning to call something awful for release out the other way.

After a few minutes he found a small clearing with a log to sit on and dismounted carefully, helping the waking Little Bird to do so before setting her on the log.

“Be back in a moment…” he muttered before going off to relieve himself. This turned out to take a while; he must have drunk more that he realized.

When he got back to the little clearing the girl was nowhere to be found. He panicked for a moment before he heard the distinctive sound of running water not far off. He snorted, then laughed to himself quietly.  _Of course_ _._ When his Little Bird finally returned, having taken even longer than he had to finish her business, she was smoothing out her skirts, looking down, and didn’t notice he was there for a moment. When she looked up to see him smiling she blushed. She remained remarkably composed, maintaining a noblewoman's posture and dignity even in her somewhat disheveled state.  

“G-good morning, Ser Sandor,” she said. 

“I’m not a bloody  _ser._ ” 

The Bird said nothing, and didn't meet his eye. 

"Are you alright? Can you ride?" Sandor asked.

“Y-yes,” said Sansa meekly.

Yet Sandor could tell though that this wasn’t so. Her movements betrayed great stiffness, and he knew a night of riding like that would leave the inexperienced aching and rather sore in all the wrong places. 

Without further ado he went to Stranger, patted his the nose, and went to the saddlebags for food. The fare he’d brought was unfortunately meagre, mostly bread, cheese, and salt pork, but it would serve for a time. He would need to hunt and set snares if they were to be out in the wild for very long, as the food was only enough for about a week, maybe two at most. But that would be later. Now, they simply needed to get moving, and soon. 

He handed the Little Bird a piece of bread and some cheese before sitting down on the log to eat for himself. After quickly devouring his own food, he looked to the Bird to find her small, careful, yet very focused bites, managing to look a perfect lady even when here in the wild with her red hair all a-tangle and full of sticks. He laughed silently to himself at this, smiling, but she was too intent on her food to notice.

Finished with his food, Sandor went to his horse, brought out his wine, and swiftly drained a gulp of the sour Dornish red he’d brought for the ride. After petting Stranger’s snout a few times he checked the saddlebags to make sure they were ready for departure. All was in order. There was no more reason to linger in this little clearing.  

“Time to get moving, Little Bird,” he said, perhaps more gruffly than he intended, for the Bird looked startled. She composed herself though and then simply nodded, walking rather stiffly to Sandor’s giant warhorse, seemingly without fear. He helped her onto the saddle before mounting up himself.

 

The Bird

 

Sansa Stark did not want to spend more time on Sandor's horse. Her body ached all over, and a night of poor sleep and little food made her feel rather ill. But she understood all too well just what would happen if they were caught, and shuddered to wonder at what more even might be waiting for them that she couldn’t think of. So, she steeled herself, and climbed onto the mighty black stallion without complaint. Sandor climbed on behind her, putting a giant arm around her middle and taking the reins with the other. After a moment, they were off, though at a blessedly slower pace. She had the feeling that this was more for the horse's sake than hers, however.

She had no idea where they were going. She remembered that they’d gone out of the northward gates of King’s Landing, but beyond that she knew not. After giving it some consideration, she decided that Riverrun, where her grandfather and uncle lived, was most likely, and that the Eyrie where aunt Lysa lived might be possible. So she decided to ask.

“Sandor?”

He grunted in acknowledgment.   

"Where is it we're going?"

He said nothing. After a distressingly long while, he finally spoke. "R... Riverrun, Little Bird. To see your Lady Mother.” His tone was indecisive, suggesting he hadn't thought about it before.

At this, Sansa's heart leapt. _Mother!_ She was going to see her mother again! She could’ve cried for joy. She hadn't known her mother would be there.  _My brother might be there too! Oh Robb! I miss you. And I’ll get to meet grandfather too, and Uncle Edmure._

A warm and wonderful feeling seeped its way in until it was coursing through her. It had been a very long time since she'd felt any kind of real hope, but now, she felt nothing but. Sansa could not have felt happier to have been enduring the ride. 


	2. A Lion's Fate, a Wolf's Future

Robb

 

The King in the North stared rather disbelievingly at the letter he held. Early that morning Riverrun had received a letter bearing the seal of the Tyrells of Highgarden. The maester there had sent it on to the Crag, where Robb and his army was stationed. 

Now that he'd read it, he found himself at a loss for words. 

"Well? What is it, threats, taunts? Spit it out!" yelled the Greatjon. 

"Yes, please, do tell us," said Maege Mormont.

"M-Mace Tyrell has offered alliance," Robb finally stammered. A collective silence filled the room.

"On what terms?" asked Lady Mormont after a years-long pause. 

"Marriage. He says that if I make his daughter my queen, he shall give us the strength of Highgarden."

It didn't quite say this, in truth. Many mighty seas of ink had been drained to write all the flattery and airy nothings of the letter, and it took most of three and a half feet of parchment to finally get to the point, which it also did in a lengthy, flowery, and frustratingly roundabout way. Even for the deepest southron courtesy this was rather excessive. In the end, though, that arrangement is what it boiled down to. After extolling at such unrestrained length about the strength and bounty of the Reach and the beauty of his daughter Margaery (whom his praise made sound like the Maiden herself) there was little else this letter could mean, particularly given its rather out-of-the-blue nature. Robb supposed Lord Mace's hinting meant he was supposed to make the offer himself.  _What a strange way of doing things._

With the power of most of the Reach at his side though, and all its great wealth in men and materiel, he would have a truly decisive advantage over the Lannisters where before he was grasping for any vulnerability he could press. Nor would he have to share it with Renly, as he might have just a month or so ago. He wasn't all that enthusiastic about marrying a girl he'd never met, and especially one already widowed, but there were worse fates. There was simply no way he could afford to reject this offer. 

At his words a bout of whispering ensued. "At least, I think that's what it says." He read it aloud, which took a long time. By the end he thought his beard had grown most of an inch.

When he finished, Lady Mormont was the first to speak up. "Have we much in the way of choice? If we accept them, we will have the strongest army in the Seven Kingdoms. If not, the Lannisters will likely make alliance with them. We can't afford that."

"And can we afford to lose the Freys?" said Robb, though he thought it likely true. "Walder Frey is not a man I want as an enemy, even with the might of the Reach at my back." 

"Bugger him! We lose one petty, dishonourable Riverlord and get the whole of the bloody Reach for it!" bellowed the Greatjon.

"Along with more than four thousand men and likely a great deal of trust among the other Riverlords," replied Robb. 

"Hells, the Riverlords despise the Freys! They're more like to thank you for it!" 

"He isn't wrong, Your Grace. We Riverlords care little for the Freys,” spoke Ser Brynden Tully, Robb's great-uncle. “They aren't, however a loss we can ignore, nor is Walder's ire risked lightly, but the Greatjon is right: we need the Reach. If they should join the Lannisters, we are lost. If they join us, we may be winning this war outright. As many as eighty to a hundred thousand men, food and other supplies in abundance, and the Redwyne fleet to help against the Ironborn that plague our coasts... this union would turn whole tide in our favour.”   

Robb found himself in agreement, though as the knight pointed out the Freys still concerned him. "Then we shall agree to Lord Mace's offer. We'll depart for Riverrun on the morrow. Send word to Lord Mace to bring his daughter, and all the guests he'd want for a wedding."

The rest of the council nodded and spoke in assent, smiles beginning to break out. A poor situation had become, with this, a much better if rather uncomfortable one. Someone cheered, but Robb didn’t notice who.

And now he felt a great deal of hope. A long and difficult slog through the rest of the war, the prospect of marrying a Frey, all that had vanished, and now the war looked to be turning significantly in their favour. Even Robb himself smiled at the thought of this. 

After some more minor business, the council concluded for the day, and Robb decided to go and check upon Theon Greyjoy, who had become a major headache since they'd arrived. As the storming of the Crag was concluding, a stray arrow had pierced Theon's left leg below the knee. It had left him bleeding profusely, and unable to bear weight on said leg. He'd been recovering slowly since the battle.

And then the elder Westerling daughter had gotten herself involved much more than she should have. 

She'd apparently been quite taken with the tall Ironborn lad from the moment she'd first seen him. When Robb placed the utmost priority on his care, Sybelle Spicer, the Lady Westerling, had made her elder daughter Jeyne his primary caretaker in the absence of a castle maester. Robb initially had refused her, but she hadn't taken no for an answer. Jeyne simply went into his rooms and started taking care of him anyway whenever nobody was looking. Robb had tried to take her off the case more than once, but after she didn't show up evening Theon had asked for her, and once informed strongly protested her removal. After a long argument, Robb had finally given in to his friend's wishes.

No one then had thought then that Jeyne would sleep with him, though in hindsight it seemed like they should have seen it coming. The two had been found wrapped naked around one another late in the night a couple of days ago by a passing servant, who immediately shrieked and ran to strait Lady Sybelle. She had of course come to him in the middle of the night screaming rape, and it had taken several tired, frustrating, and on Jeyne's part highly embarrassing hours for the Lady to accept that her daughter had given herself voluntarily. When she did, she demanded that something be done to restore her daughter's honour. When Theon offered to marry Jeyne, Lady Sybelle was furious in such a way it had left her utterly speechless for long time. She had eventually softened, and agreed, grudgingly, that it would be for the best. The ceremony had taken place that afternoon in the Crag's small sept. 

Robb hadn't had a chance to talk to him since and greatly desired to do so. 

When he reached Theon's chambers, he found Jeyne there talking to him about something. They both smiled, though Theon's was a sad one. 

When they noticed him Jeyne rose, smiled at him, muttering "Your Grace..." before walking out the door, waving goodbye to Theon. Robb smiled at her, nodded, and she was gone. 

"I hope you're not here to yell at me," said Theon. 

Robb simply shook his head. "I'm not really mad at you anymore. Just... tired. Tired of it all. I want to go home. I want this war to end. I came to ask how things were with you. How's marriage?" 

"She wants to come with us, when we leave. Jeyne does. I want her to," he replied.

This surprised Robb. He’d thought that Theon would want to leave her behind, try to avoid responsibility. That’s what he usually did. "You actually rather like her don’t you? You didn’t just take advantage of her?"

Theon nodded. "I didn’t expect to. I liked her company when she was just helping me, and then she kissed me, and well, I really do like her. She’s a lovely girl." His expression was a smile, a pure one, almost one of wonder, and lacked his typical roguish bent. 

He was acting like he'd grown a decade almost overnight. The Theon Robb knew would have been smug about having lain with her and then apologetic when Robb got angry, but wouldn’t have felt bad about dishonouring her. He had skipped the first, gone straight on into the second, and now seemed passed that too to a side of him that Robb hadn’t seen before, or even imagined he'd had. He eyed his friend suspiciously.

Theon noticed, snorting. “Not like I expected to have to marry her.” And there, with a roguish smile, reappeared the old Theon.

"You offered to!"

"I wasn't really thinking at the time."

“Well, clearly. Theon, if you want to take her, you may. In a few days’ time we head back to Riverrun. I’ll have to get married there myself in none to long.”

“That old weasel pushing the wedding, then? Did you choose which of his girls to bed?” asked Theon, smirking.

“I’m not marrying a Frey. Instead, I get Margaery Tyrell. Mace Tyrell offered alliance in exchange for marrying his daughter.”

Theon’s eyebrows rose, incredulous. After a quiet moment, he smiled. “Well, I guess that improves our chances a bit, doesn’t it?”

 

Tyrion

 

 

He woke to the creak and shutting of his chamber door.

“Who?” he croaked. At least he had his voice back, raw and hoarse though it was. The fever was still on him, and Tyrion had no notion of the hour. How long had he slept this time? He was so weak, so damnably weak. “Who?” he called again, more loudly. Torchlight spilled through the open door, but within the chamber the only light came from the stub of a candle beside his bed.

When he saw a shape moving toward him, Tyrion shivered. Here in the Red Keep, every servant may well be in the queen’s pay, so any visitor might be another of Cersei’s catspaws, sent to finish the work Ser Mandon had begun.

Then the man stepped into the candlelight, got a good look at the dwarf’s pale face, and chortled. “Cut yourself shaving, did you?”

Tyrion’s fingers went to the great gash that ran from above one eye down to his jaw, across what remained of his nose. The proud flesh was still raw and warm to the touch. “With a fearful big razor, yes.”

Bronn’s coal-black hair was freshly washed and brushed straight back from the hard lines of his face, and he was dressed in high boots of soft, tooled leather, a wide belt studded with nuggets of silver, and a cloak of pale green silk. Across the dark grey wool of his doublet, a pair of garish chains crossed over a field of fire embroidered in fine thread had been sown.

“Where have you been?” Tyrion demanded of him. “I sent for you... it must have been a fortnight ago.”

“Four days ago, more like,” the sellsword said, “and I’ve been here twice, and found you dead to the world.”

“Not dead. Though my sweet sister did try.” Perhaps he should not have said that aloud, but Tyrion was past caring. Cersei was behind Ser Mandon’s attempt to kill him, he knew that in his gut. “What’s that ugly thing on your chest?”

Bronn grinned. “My knightly sigil. I got knighted, you see, for all I did in the winch tower. Your little nephew made me ser Bronn of the Blackwater.”

“Did he dub you himself?”

“No. Them of us as survived the fight at the towers got ourselves dabbed by the High Septon and dubbed by the Kingsguard. Took half the bloody day, with only three of the White Swords left to do the honours.”

“I knew Ser Mandon died in the battle.” Shoved into the river by Pod, half a heartbeat before the treacherous bastard could drive his sword through my heart. “Who else was lost?”

“The Hound. Vanished after the Blackwater lit up, no one’s seen him since. Ironhand says you led a sortie in his place afterword.”

 _A foolish notion if there ever was one._ “My nephew,” he said, “Joffrey. Was he in any danger?”

“No more’n some, and less than most.”

“Had he suffered any harm? Taken a wound? Mussed his hair, stubbed his toe, cracked a nail?”

“Not as I heard.”

“And what of my Lord Father?” Pod had told him that his father was grievously injured, but didn’t know anything more.

“He’s not looking good. Still unconscious. Your sweet sister spends most of her time at his side. He’ll probably live, they say.”

Tyrion wasn’t sure what to feel about that. At the very least, it helped delay his relatives in actively declawing him.

“I sent Pod looking for Shagga, but he’s had no luck.”

“Shagga’s still in the Kingswood. He and the Stone Crows seem to have taken a fancy to it. Timett led the Burned Men home, with all the plunder they took from Stannis’s camp after the fighting. Chella turned up with a dozen Black Ears at the River Gate one morning, but your father’s red cloaks chased them off while the Kingslanders threw dung and cheered.”

 _Ingrates,_ he thought. _The Black Ears died for you_. “I want you to go to my sister. Her precious son made it through the battle unscathed, so Cersei has no more need of a hostage. She swore to free Alayaya once.”

“She’s still captive. Your sister is, as I mentioned, a bit distracted.” This didn’t settle well with him. She was a good girl, learning to read, Tyrion remembered somehow. She didn’t deserve to be imprisoned.

 

"Is Stannis still alive? I heard he's reappeared on Dragonstone."

"Aye, Stannis lives. He's been silent since the battle, licking his wounds. Most of the Stormlords turned cloak and swore to your nephew, though." 

That was good, at least. They needed allies, and while the Stormlords weren't the most dependable, they would be invaluable anyways. “What of Robb Stark, what has he been doing?”

“There’s some of his wolves burning their way down toward Duskendale. Your uncle Kevan’s sent some men under a knight named Addam Marbrand and the sellswords your father brought to sort them out. I’d half a mind to join him, but your uncle’s paying me well to help keep the peace here. Hard enough as is. There’s not much food, too many more soldiers to feed, and still a good deal of rioting and looting goin’ on all over. Ironhand’s a bit overwhelmed, and he and your uncle have been working together to try to calm things down.”

That didn’t bode well. With Sansa Stark missing, they now had little food, no valuable Northern hostages, no major allies except the Stormlords, the Westerlands and now the Crownlands both under threat of invasion, and the supply lines between the two likely cut, the situation crumbling in the capitol and leadership here a chaotic mess, the war had turned very dark very quickly.

Still, the Stormlands' allegiance was a major plus. They were surrounded on fewer sides by fewer enemies, and likely had a large number of valuable prisoners and a stronger claim to power in the south overall.

“Are the rest of the men you hired for me? Are they under the pay uncle Kevan as well?”

“Your uncle’s been very generous”

“How good of him,” Tyrion said acidly.

“Does that mean you’ve not lost your taste for gold?”

“Not bloody likely.”

“Good,” said Tyrion, “because as it happens, I still have need of you. What do you know of Ser Mandon Moore?”

Bronn laughed. “I know he’s bloody well drowned.”

“I owe him a great debt, but how to pay it?” He touched his face, feeling the scar. “I know precious little of the man, if truth be told.”

“He had eyes like a fish and he wore a white cloak. What else do you need to know?”

“Everything,” said Tyrion, “for a start.” What he wanted was proof that Ser Mandon had been Cersei’s, but he dare not say so aloud. In the Red Keep a man did best to hold his tongue. There were rats in the walls, little birds who talked too much, and spiders, creeping through the shadows. “Help me up,” he said, struggling with the bedclothes. “It’s time I paid a call on my uncle, and past time I let myself be seen again.”

But when Tyrion slid from the bed to the floor, his short legs turned to jelly beneath him, the room spun, and he had to grasp Bronn’s arm to keep from pitching headlong into the rushes. “Pod!” he shouted. “Podrick Payne! Where in the seven hells are you?” Pain gnawed at him like a toothless dog. Tyrion hated weakness, especially his own. It shamed him, and shame made him angry. “Pod, get in here!”

The boy came running. When he saw Tyrion standing and clutching Bronn’s arm, he gaped at them. “My lord. You stood. Is that... do you... do you need wine? Dreamwine? Should I get the maester? He said you must stay. Abed, I mean.”

“I have stayed abed too long. Bring me some clean garb.”

“Garb?”

How the boy could be so clearheaded and resourceful in battle and so confused at all other times Tyrion could never comprehend. “Clothing,” he repeated. “Tunic, doublet, breeches, hose. For me. To dress in. So I can leave this bloody cell.” Pod ran off for it hurriedly.

It took all three of them to clothe him. Hideous though his face might be, the worst of his wounds was the one at the juncture of shoulder and arm, where an arrow had driven his own mail back into his armpit. Pus and blood still seeped from the discoloured flesh whenever Maester Frenken changed his dressing, and any movement shot a stab of white-hot agony through him. In the end, Tyrion settled for a pair of breeches and an oversized bed robe that hung rather loosely about his shoulders. Bronn shoved his boots onto his feet while Pod went in searching for a stick to lean upon. He drank a cup of dreamwine to fortify himself. The wine was sweetened with honey, with enough milk of the poppy to make his wounds bearable for the time being.

Even so, dizziness took a hold of him and all but knocked him over as he made for the door. When he did finally escape, walking stick in one hand and the other on Pod’s shoulder, a serving girl passed by and stared at him with eyes so wide a fleet of ships could’ve been lost in them. _The dwarf returns from the dead,_ he thought. _Sorry to disappoint._ With that they descended the Tower of the Hand, and Tyrion found himself horribly embarrassed to have to be carried down the steps. Men in Lannister crimson swarmed the halls main keep, and countless other servants bustled about. The whole palace was a beehive in red.

Stares, gapes, and gasps followed the trio as they made their way to uncle Kevan’s solar, where Bronn expected he would be found. It seemed to take all eternity to arrive, but when they did, two crimson-cloaked Lannister guardsmen stood without. Tyrion didn’t recognise either of them, but they evidently did him, and stood aside, the taller of the two knocking on the door, and saying “Your nephew, Lord Tyrion, is here to see you,” in a very gruff, gravelly manner that Tyrion found reminiscent of some of his tribesmen.

“Send him in,” said the familiar voice of Tyrion’s favourite uncle. The door opened, and the trio went inside.

Ser Kevan Lannister was a broad-shouldered portly man of fifty-five, balding, with bright green eyes and a yellow beard that followed the line of his impressively large jaw. Of all Tyrion’s relatives, only Jaime and Kevan had treated him at all well, and Kevan recognised his intelligence more than anyone he’d ever met, aside perhaps from the old maester on the Wall. Certainly more than his father or sister did, or even his brother. With him in the room was Ser Jacelyn “Ironhand” Bywater, Lord Commander of the City Watch, an appointment of Tyrion’s.

When the trio entered the solar, Ironhand stood, bowed, and smiled lightly at Tyrion. “Good to see you well, Lord Tyrion,” he said, before nodding at Kevan and taking his leave.

“Tyrion!” said Kevan, “it’s good to see you awake, though you do look rather worse for wear. How are you feeling?”

“Like asking the Stranger for mercy. Otherwise, quite well, thank you. I hear you’re in my place as acting Hand?”

“Yes. Joffrey and Cersei both insisted I serve as such. They handed me seven hells of a mess to clean up. I can definitely see why they say what they do about Hands and Kings' shits, even if this particular one took many different kings to create. Having seen what you’ve accomplished here, I must say I’m impressed, particularly with your ploy with the wildfire. I daresay I don't think anyone else would have thought of that.”

“Thank you, uncle. I do pride myself on it, and it’s good to see someone recognise my work,” replied Tyrion proudly. He would have beamed had it not hurt his face when he tried.

“I know the feeling. Growing up with Tywin Lannister as an older brother can do that to you. Speaking of your position as Hand, however, this job is rather complicated, and you navigate it well. With you abilities and your experience there are a number of matters with which I was hoping that you might be able to help me, when you’re recovered of course. So far, I've managed to keep your pin off my chest, and I would like it to stay on yours.”

This was honestly far more than Tyrion had thought he’d be able to salvage. Learning of his father’s arrival, he’d despaired, expecting most of his work would collapse whilst he was in a drug-induced sleep, yet it seemed his uncle had worked _with_ his allies and minions rather than replace them, and hadn't even taken his position. 

While the Lannister cause was crumbling outside the walls of the Keep, it looked better for Tyrion within them. This turn of events gave him some reason for hope, a feeling he’d been lacking for the last few weeks. It felt as if some of the weight of the world had been lifted from his small and injured shoulders. 


	3. Revelations

The Bird

 

Sansa Stark had never been in such dire need of a bath. She hadn’t had one since before the Blackwater. Now, after nearly three weeks in the woods, she knew she must reek worse than a stable and a sty. 

They’d had to buy new clothes for her when they’d come across a small crofters’ village after a week of travel or so. She now wore a simple brown peasant dress, rough to the touch, and a thick grey cloak that itched like mad yet kept her warm even on the coldest nights, and the nights grew gradually colder with every passing week. _Winter is coming._

She had consented too to cut her hair, making for a more complete disguise. She had wanted to keep it, and just about wept when Sandor had cut most of her beloved locks from her head. It now fell almost to her shoulders. It had, however, become easier to manage, far less a hassle on the run.

Sandor, she was pleased to find, was far better company on the road than she’d worried he might be. And he’d only become more so since he’d run out of wine about a week ago and a half ago. He was usually rather quiet, talking mostly when he needed her to know or do something, or when he was teaching her more about trapping or horse care.

The former, despite the blood involved in skinning and gutting the squirrels and hares it got for them, had been an unexpected delight. Arya had always been the one to learn boyish skills like riding or hunting, and Sansa had at first felt rather helpless when Sandor was doing all the hunting and trapping for them. He had been astonished to learn she was interested (though in any other circumstance she wouldn’t have been) but had only muttered something about a strange little bird before showing her how to set a snare. She had learned quickly, her small and dexterous hands making quick work of sapling snares. Now, she felt proud to be able to contribute.

It was exciting, knowing she wasn’t helpless, even in this small way. It had gone a long way towards helping Sansa distance herself from her time in the capital. The world by now might only consist of her, Sandor, Stranger, and the wilderness of the Riverlands.

Sandor’s gigantic black stallion had become a companion she had not expected in the slightest. To most, he had told her, Stranger was a terror, temperamental and difficult, and she had seen a little of this when they stopped briefly in villages. Around her though, the stallion was quite gentle, and while often stubborn when she tried to ride him his temper was markedly improved. This baffled his master, who would stare in confusion as Stranger let her freely take him by the reins and lead him about. In the hopes of eventually finding her a horse of her own, Sandor had been having her practice riding Stranger alone, and she for the first time enjoyed riding than most ladylike activities. Arya was going to be so jealous. Or proud. Maybe both. 

Sansa’s relationship with Sandor was shifting every day, too, ever growing in depth and complexity. He had once scared her, but now he’d saved her, more than once. He had risked himself for her, and did so without the hope of reward, or because he felt he could use her for his own advancement. He had freed her from a world of terror and fear because he cared about her, something it seemed at times no one else did. And he was gentle. It was not a word even she who knew him would have considered to describe the Hound (though she felt this was the wrong name for him. He was a man, a good man and an honest one, not a dog), but he was. He held her with a gentle hand while the two rode, and whenever he would touch her at other times he was nearly tentative, like he wasn't sure it was okay. 

His manners and words were another story. He was still wont to swear in nearly every sentence. He was always painfully blunt, his voice and words gruff, honest to a fault, yet in all this never unkind. When she did something stupid (an admittedly frequent occurrence, for she knew little of living in the wild or on the run), Sandor would chastise her mercilessly, but his words weren’t needlessly harsh. He would laugh at her when she tried to act as a proper lady in the woods, though not with disdain or cruelty, only at how ridiculous her actions were. Sansa would sometimes even find herself thinking him right, but would never admit it. He called her Little Bird, but not for her naïve chirping, instead more as a familiar nickname. Almost playfully. He would tease her about her chirping sometimes, but there was none of the mocking sarcasm that had affected his tone before.

He cared nothing for chivalry, holding it in utter contempt, yet possessed the underlying kindness and respect for her that chivalry was supposed to entail. He was not a knight, but was a better man than any knight she knew. He had complained of her calling him that for the first week, but she had persisted, and he hadn’t. He was a true knight to her, no matter what he said.

Their weeks of journey had brought them somewhere between Harrenhall and the Red Fork River, which they would follow back to Riverrun. There were no major castles for most of this route, which was very much to their advantage. 

They came, one cold and dreary-grey but blessedly dry evening, to an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It had been out of use for a while, and all the food had long since been eaten by looters, worms, and various wild animals, but it was warm and cosy and more intact than most of the houses and villages Rivermen of these parts had left behind. Wool blankets had been left behind, as had plenty of dry firewood and several pieces of lovely wicker furniture. A wonderful place for a reprieve, and Sandor had agreed at her insistence to stay for a couple of nights.

Sansa was lighting a fire and thinking about how easy this had become, almost instinctual, when Sandor returned from seeing to Stranger, whom they’d corralled outside the door. The fire caught as he did so. He walked over to one the chair she’d drawn before the fire and brought out his sword to polish.

He polished his sword frequently. Every time they’d stopped anywhere, he would let her tend the fire if they had one while whetting his blade. It was decidedly ritualistic, and she wondered if he was doing it as way of passing time, simply to alleviate boredom the way she often would with her sewing.

_There’s no way any sword could need that much polishing. Is he distracting himself from something?_

It passed from her mind as she sat cross-legged, staring at the fire. Eventually, her thoughts, as they often did, drifted back to Winterfell.  She remembered a poem, a lullaby, that Maester Luwin had taught her to help her learn some High Valyrian. It told the story of a boy, a shepherd’s child who lived in the hills of Lhazar and played all day with his favourite lambs. It was a happy and wistful story, one that distracted from the ills of the world, sung to a simple, playful melody. Sansa remembered her mother singing it to her little brothers over the years. 

She sang it to herself quietly, and somewhere near the end where the boy lives happily ever after with his own little flock, Sandor abruptly snorted, as he usually did when she did something he thought silly. Her immersion in the past crashed apart as he did, drawing her back to reality. “Life doesn’t have happy endings,” he said, more serious than he’d been recently.

When she simply stared at him in confusion, he seemed to misunderstand why she did, and said, “I had a maester too, growing up. I paid better attention than most.”

Sansa hadn’t known this. She hadn’t honestly thought much on what kind of past beyond knowing his brother dominated it, having learned next to nothing beyond what Gregor had done to his face.

“Lessons with my maester, Geller, he was called, were distractions from a terrible fucking world. So I focused all I could on them. I learned all the heraldry there was, read every book in the keep twice. Geller taught me Valyrian when he ran out of everything else."

He put his sword out in front of him, gazing at it for a moment, before standing and placing it against the wall next to the fireplace. “Gregor eventually fucked that up too. Just like everything else. I was twelve, thirteen maybe, when Geller vanished. No one seemed to know what happened to him, but I did. I know my brother killed him. Just like my father, with that bloody farce of a ‘hunting accident’. Or my sister, when she ‘slipped’ on the stairs. They all ignored the bruises on her throat. Or even mother, when she ‘hung herself’.  

“Then, after all that, he was anointed knight by Rhaegar Fucking Targaryen himself. A couple months later Gregor left to go kill Rhaegar’s children and rape and murder his wife. I left the keep the same day and never went back. I signed on as a household knight at Casterly Rock, and followed them until the Blackwater.” He was silent after that. 

Sansa stared at him in horror as he gazed fixedly into their little fire. His eyes were full of a sorrow the depth of which she had scarce imagined in him, but recognised in herself. _This is why he’s so hateful. This is why he’s so angry. Why he drinks so much. Seven save him._

But the Seven wouldn’t save him. They never had. They hadn’t spared Sansa either; they abandoned her to the mercy of the Lannisters, as they had Sandor to his brother.

But Sansa wouldn’t do that to him. He deserved far better. She knew this with every fibre of her being; she would always be there, for the knight the gods forgot.

And so she rose, and strode slowly to him. He didn’t appear to see her at first, but after a moment Sandor turned his head to her, mournful eyes meeting hers.

Sansa embraced him. At her touch he jerked sharply; it was likely rather shocking for him, to be embraced so warmly, or at all, by a highborn lady. But after a moment he wrapped his much larger arms around her, warm and gentle. 

“The gods left you behind Sandor, but I won’t. I won’t abandon you,” said Sansa softly.

She could feel his breathing, already quick and shallow, choking at her words. “And I’ll always keep you safe, Little Bird.” 


	4. Futures All Around

Catelyn

 

Catelyn Stark dreamt of her daughters that night. A morning in the godswood, long ago, where she and Ned were sitting on a log, holding hands as Arya chased Sansa, throwing snowballs at her. A time when all that mattered was the joy of watching one’s children play. A time when there was no need for such strength and patience as she needed now, when all the anxiety she felt now was far away, the weight of responsibility so much less. _When Ned was still here._

But those needs slowly clawed at her, dragging her away from the sweet dream of long ago back to Riverrun. Waking slowly, the feel of her sheets and the sunlight pouring through the break of day, gradually registering more and more, her dream fading once again to naught but the memory it was.

Even the comforts of soft sheets couldn’t last, for today duty called. She was both acting lord and lady of Riverrun, and performing both these duties, particularly for a castle during wartime, required that one’s preferences be made lower priority.

Shedding the soft bed’s heat with the greatest reluctance, Catelyn donned a simple blue gown and made her way to the great hall to break her fast. Bacon and stew, today, a cup of autumn-apple cider to wash it all down.

In her solar, she found Maester Vyman waiting for her. He held a letter, the broken seal still visibly that of Highgarden, and was reading it with a rather curious look impressed upon his brow.

Noticing her, he looked up. “Good morning, Lady Catelyn. This is a letter you will very much like to read,” he said. “There is another, however, from your son, which you will likely want to read first.”

Sitting on the desk was an unopened letter bearing the Stark direwolf. Eagerly cracking open the seal, she found it was indeed from Robb.

 

_Mother-_

_Two weeks past, we took the Crag. As far as most of our battles have gone, this one was fairly bloodless: We lost fewer than a hundred men in the process, but some were men I knew. It never gets easier, losing those you know, or sending them to their deaths._

_During the fight, Theon took an arrow to the leg. He was tended to by Jeyne Westerling, eldest daughter of Lord Gawen Westerling. While she did this, she decided for some reason to sleep with her. This dishonour could not be ignored, and Lady Sybelle Westerling certainly wouldn’t. We came to the agreement, eventually, that Theon would marry her. In exchange, the forces of the Crag would march with us. When we return, Jeyne and Lady Sybelle will be returning with us, to stay at Riverrun._

Catelyn had never liked Theon. She thought little of him, and even if she cursed him for dishonouring a young woman as such, it did not surprise her greatly. The next words did take her aback, though at least they explained the letter from Highgarden.

_On the subject of marriage, we have received a most unexpected boon. Mace Tyrell sent us a letter offering alliance, in exchange for his daughter’s hand being bound to mine. I don’t know much of Margaery Tyrell, yet admittedly she can't be worse than marrying a Frey._

_Obviously, this would break our pact with the Freys. Uncle Brynden and Lady Maege have both expressed concern over this, but if the Reach joins us, it is a loss they both believe we can accept, if not ignore._

_This alliance is answer to all our prayers and more. With all the food and men and money the Reach can offer, we would have all the strength we need to win the war and then some. We would have the power to defeat the Lannisters, the Ironborn, Lord Stannis, and anyone else who stood against us._

_I have decided to accept their proposal, and have said that I wish for the wedding to take place at Riverrun, and Lord Mace has sent word that he is marching your way, as we will be soon. We will likely arrive in about a fortnight, and the Tyrell party should follow perhaps two, maybe three weeks after us._

_I miss you mother. I will see you soon._

_\- Robb Stark, King in the North and the Trident_

_I miss you too, Robb._

This was almost too much. Her son was marrying, and to a southron woman, one Catelyn truthfully knew next to nothing about. Robb was getting married, too, in the same sept she had married Ned in- for precisely the same reason.

And now she had three weeks, four at most, to become ready for a royal wedding, one expected to match the luxury and opulence of Highgarden. At the very least, food wasn’t likely going to be a problem; the Reach grew a great deal of food and wine, and House Tyrell was nothing if not generous with both. Preparations would have to begin immediately.

Turning her attention to the other letter, she found it not from Mace Tyrell, as she’d expected, but from Margaery herself.

It was fairly short, and largely insubstantial, aside from expressing a desire to meet her future goodmother. Catelyn, too, wanted very much to meet her future gooddaughter. _She takes the initiative. Lady Margaery doesn’t seem afraid, at least. Unlike Lysa._

 There came a cough from behind her, causing her to start. When she turned, there stood Vyman. She’d almost forgotten the quiet maester was there. Silently, she handed him Robb's letter. His eyes widened with each passing second. “My Lady…” he said. It was unusual to see a maester at a loss for words.

“Start preparing for the wedding immediately. We will need to be ready in as few as three weeks for the ceremony,” she stated. With that, she left him in the solar to seek Brienne. The girl would need to hear about this.

 

Tyrion

 

Tyrion wanted to feel something. His father lay there, dead, and nothing but emptiness filled him. For seven days, he’d felt little. The father who had hated him, the father who was never truly a father to him, was gone. Tyrion could not bestir himself to sadness, nor could he find happiness at his newborn freedom. The world wasn’t whole without the Old Lion of Lannister.  

_But I’m the lion, now. The imp you hated, the son who wasn’t meant to inherit or even amount to anything. And in the end, I became your heir. Maybe the gods do have a sense of humour._

As Tyrion’s strength gradually returned after the Blackwater, Father’s had not. He had woken up only once, briefly, some days after Tyrion had gone to see uncle Kevan. He hadn’t said much, asking after Jaime and then his wife, Tyrion’s mother Joanna, and obviously hadn’t been in his right mind.

But it was trying to move that did him in. When he tried to rise, he’d reopened the horrible gut wound he’d received in the battle. After that, he had begun to bleed, and didn’t stop bleeding, no matter Pycelle’s efforts. Tywin Lannister never woke again.

It hadn’t taken him long to die, after that. Only a week had passed, and his funeral was being held, here in Baelor’s Great Sept. And so there next to Tywin’s corpse Tyrion stood, waiting for some kind of sensation to come. But it didn’t.

The strange, hollow numbness that followed him wasn’t the worst of this, though. His sweet sister had managed to find a way to blame him for it, just like she always did for all the ills of the world. She seemed convinced he’d somehow arranged for Father to wake and tear his wounds, and then poisoned him after that just for good measure. Much of her recent acid came from Tyrion sending her two younger children away, one to Dorne and the other Rosby.

Bronn’s investigation into Mandon Moore hadn’t turned up anything of note, but he’d only been at it for a tennight. He knew in his bones that his sister had tried to assassinate him, and would likely try again to deny him his inheritance. Were it not for uncle Kevan supporting his claim, his own bannermen might already have deposed him in favour of his uncle or sister. He would have to remain vigilant.

He was still injured himself, holding himself up with a walking stick, though he no longer needed help for anything but stairs. His shoulder, the worst of his lot, stabbed him every time he moved it wrong, but his mind was clear enough now that he could do business occasionally with his uncle, who gladly accepted his help.

Their situation in the capitol still wasn’t particularly good, but food and other supplies had started arriving from the Stormlands, most of which now grudgingly supported the Crown, and the rioting and looting was dying down. The Gold Cloaks, their strength reduced by a third in the Blackwater, was forced to draw upon Lannister soldiers who rode with them on the streets just to keep the peace, and were now seeking to rebuild their strength, letting the promise of pay and steady employment slowly worked its magic.

“M-My Lord Tyrion,” said Pod, dutifully standing beside him. “We n-need to go soon.”

“He’s right,” said Bronn, having suddenly reappeared from gods-know-where. Tyrion turned, silently regarding them both. _It would be good to go and sleep on a nice bed._

He nodded, walking forward distractedly.

King’s Landing had become more of a cesspit than it was before the battle. Out of danger for month and it still looked – and smelled – all too much like a fresh battlefield. Frequent riots had, until recently, taken daily tolls upon nearly every standing structure in sight. Flea Bottom, in particular, would now more accurately be described as Flattened Bottom. Tavern brawls and nocturnal stabbings resulted in bodies floating along in the Rush, adding decay to the mix. Horse and human shit had until after he’d woken littered the street, gathering knee-deep in places, making areas of the city literal cesspools and –pits. The smell of it was liable to knock the unprepared unconscious, and nearly did so for a distracted Tyrion.

The trio were escorted back to the Red Keep by a group of about thirty Gold Cloaks, who alone it seemed remembered Tyrion’s contribution to the Blackwater. Ironhand had proved a very valuable ally, one of the few to recognise his abilities, and what he could bring to the table. His followers served well.

Their trip back witnessed nothing of great importance, though they passed a couple of typical early-evening tavern fights.

Only after Tyrion got back to his bed did it sink in how exhausted he had become. Standing in front of his father’s dead body for an hour was apparently highly exacting, for sleep of a troubled and dissatisfying sort found him only moments after he lay down.

The next time he was aware of anything, the heat of midday beat down upon him. His body ached all over, making it hurt when he tried to move. His mind and vision blurred, as from behind stain-glass.

After a time he became aware of another presence in the room. _Who? Assassin?_ He thought, adrenaline crashing into him, erasing the blur of mind.

“The tired Lion wakes!” That voice. It was Shae.

He tried to get up, but even raising his head hurt like all seven hells. _That funeral took too much out of me._

Shae moved over to him, sensing his pain. “Lie still,” she said, “no need to hurt yourself.” She kissed his forehead. Tyrion managed only a weak smile in response.

Since father died, Tyrion had Shae made a handmaid to Lollys Stokeworth, to whom Bronn would be married in a year’s time. Without father’s threat of hanging, she’d been able to come to court. She came when she could for him, but with him in the midst of recovery and spending much time in bed and she with her new duties her visits were not as frequent as either of them would have liked.

This day, she just climbed into his bed and lay there, looking at him, unperturbed by the scars. Shae always seemed to know how to make him feel right, and this she did now. For one of the first times since father’s death, he felt right.

Though it hurt, Tyrion reached over and touched her, his fingers brushing her cheek. He lowered his hand after a few seconds, smiling brighter.

Sleep found him soon again, but this time it was a sweet respite.

 

 

The Hound

Sandor watched, proud of his wonderful Little Bird, as she tied a snare with deft and delicate hands. She excelled at such tasks, anything involving small or complicated motions. The kind of thing Sandor had struggled with, and sometimes still did. At setting stares, starting fires, and even removing armour, the Little Bird had become an expert, and she’d only started learning about the armour a couple of days ago.

When she’d finished, she looked up at him, smiling, her now lightly freckled complexion glowing with pride. This was the fastest snare she’d yet to set, taking her all of ten, maybe twenty seconds, and one her best.

 _A good rabbit would do us well,_ he thought. _We need to get more food._

Living off pilfered supplies where they could, and wild game where they couldn’t, had left both of them significantly thinner than they had been. Little Bird, in particular, was precious more than skin and bone at this point. They had, at least, found the Red Fork just that morning, and Sansa had been working on a net that could be used to catch fish.

Sandor nodded at her work and turned back to camp. A chestnut brown mare called Maiden stood next to Stranger.  Two days past they’d encountered a small village with a horse for sale. It was expensive, but Maiden had proven herself worth every silver. A fast and well built hunting horse, she worked well with the Little Bird and got on better than most with Stranger. The Bird was very fond of Maiden and rode her better than he thought she was able. She also seemed somehow able to know exactly what the mare wanted, and every time knew just how to handle her.

Their camp consisted only of a log, their mounts, and bedrolls. Until after they’d left the cottage, they’d made fires in the evening, but now the woods were soaked from the cold rain that pissed down for most of the last two days. It didn’t fall now, but the sky looked as if it had unfinished business with anything still dry.

When they sat down, the Bird touched his shoulder, giving him a smile that was full of a warmth he couldn’t remember even his mother giving him. _What did I ever do to deserve her smiles?_ She moved closer and silently began to work at his armour.

The morning after that strange night at the cottage, she’d asked with a smile if she could help him put his armour on. She had learned how, she’d said, from watching her brothers. The way she smiled he couldn’t find it within him to tell her no, but he’d once again told her how silly he was being. She hadn’t listened, and he was honestly glad for it. Her attention was always welcome and she seemed to be actively seeking to give it to him. When she embraced him, which she’d done again several times since the cottage, or when she helped him with his armour, he found a sense of calm he couldn’t remember ever having had before. 

Besides, now if they needed to they could cut her hair even shorter and disguise her as a squire, but Sandor hoped it didn’t come to that. He liked the Little Bird’s hair, short, wild and tangled as it was.

While he had stayed essentially as quiet as his usual self, the Little Bird’s lovely songs grew more frequent. She would tell him stories of growing up in Winterfell, sing him songs and a couple of lullabies, and once had even given him a bawdy jape, blushing like a strawberry by the end of it.

“Sandor?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever play in the snow? When you were little?”

“Little Bird, do you think I played much when I was little?”

“Oh.” Her face grew sad, almost worried, at his words. Before he could think too much on it, she spoke again.

“Summer snows sometimes fell at Winterfell. Arya and I would run around throwing snowballs at each other. I made the better snowballs, but Arya was better at throwing. Robb and Jon would join sometimes…” She grew quiet again after that.

Sandor had wondered, sometimes, what it might be like to have a brother who loved him the way the Little Bird’s brothers loved her. He would never have one, though. All he had was Gregor. Around her though, Gregor grew more distant. His life seemed to be more than just waiting for a chance at revenge. Sansa had given him a sense of new direction, a chance to better himself.

He worried, though, especially now that the path to Riverrun was clear to them, whether the Little Bird’s family would accept him. Even after he returned her to them without asking for a reward, his motives were always going to be suspect. At best, he would be able to join the Stark cause, and her brother wouldn't deny him a place near her. He would at least ask to be the Little Bird’s sworn shield, but had little and less hope of that. It was unlikely any lady would allow him near her daughter. _Unless…_

“Little Bird?”

“Yes, Sandor?”

“I… I’m going to swear an oath.” _Seven fucking hells._ He was going to do it. He was going to, for the first time in his life, swear an oath. This would be the first he’d ever actually want, the first that was real, or sacred. 

The Little Bird inhaled sharply, giving Sandor a look of shock. She knew better than anyone that he took no vows, and was likely the only one who really understood why. Her face was a jumbled mix of worry, confusion, and curiosity. 

“If you’ll have me, I… I will swear to your service, to your protection. By the Seven and by the Old Gods and the damned Red God too, I will be your sworn shield.” If he swore a sacred vow to her defence, it would be more likely that he could be around her, and that the Little Bird’s mother and brother would accept him. Say what you will about the Starks, they did take their oaths seriously. And so would he.

Her surprise quickly became the warmest smile he’d ever seen her give, to him or to anyone else. Throwing her arms around him, she whispered in his ear, “yes,” then, more loudly, looking him in the eyes, “I’ll have you, Ser Sandor. Be my sworn knight.”

 _Here I go. A vow…_ He rose, drew his sword, and knelt, touching the blade to the ground. “Then I swear to you, and on my honour-” _I haven’t got any honour,_ he thought, resisting the urge to snort. “I swear to defend you, to keep you safe, to protect your honour and to serve you however you’ll have me.” _An honest statement, a vow to protect a young maiden. What am I doing? What kind of dog am I? Or is she right, that I really am a knight, but just can’t see it?_

_Fat chance of that._

She threw herself around him again, still smiling, eyes closed. Sitting there in her arms, his past, the life he’d known since he was half a boy, seemed to slip off as if it were an old cloak, and a future with Sansa’s warmth and understanding was wrapped around his neck.


	5. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. This took a while to get right.

Catelyn

Catelyn Stark began the day as she usually did, breaking her fast with Brienne. She had been, since her brother Edmure’s return, absolved of most of her duties here at Riverrun, which gave her little more to do but wait. Robb, who had arrived about a fortnight ago, was caught up in his duties, but saw her when he could, but that wasn’t enough to occupy her. He took his meals with his bannermen, leaving her without company in the mornings but for the young woman. The Tyrells were on their way, likely to arrive in another day or two.

Robb’s wedding, however, was not what weighed on her mind. Bran, simply disappearing along with his wolf, Hodor, and the Reed children, ate at both Catelyn and Robb, worrying them both sick. Luwin had sent out a raven some days ago saying this, possibly implicating the Reed children. The outriders had been looking for nearly a week, he said, but had found no trace.

She felt such desperation for him. She wished she could be in four places all at once, in Riverrun, in Winterfell, wherever Bran was, and in King’s Landing, next to each of her children. She wanted to be there for them, to hold them to protect them, just to _see_ them all again.

Catelyn thought back to a time when her family was whole. Back before the direwolves; before the king’s arrival; before Bran was pushed. Remembering fondly the times Robb and Arya and Jon raced each other on horseback; Sansa’s needlework, her singing, her wonderful hair, the times she would comb her daughter’s hair herself; Arya coming to supper every day covered in dirt, despite having stayed inside; the fear that grabbed her heart when Bran would climb about; reading and singing to Rickon, his tantrums, his fiery hair, the same as her own…

“Milady,” said a voice in front of her.

Breaking her reverie to look for the voice, she saw Ser Markus Ralley, Riverrun’s master-at-arms, looking rather concerned.

“Your daughter’s here to see you. We didn’t believe her at first, ‘specially given her company, but the King says she’s his sister. Out in the courtyard-”

Catelyn Stark’s self control fell away as might water off a duck. Practically exploding from her chair, startling Brienne, she rose, and ran past the knight, not even bothering to inquire as to which daughter he meant.

When she finally burst through the courtyard doors after what felt like a thousand years, she found her son indeed there, smiling and almost weeping while talking to a tall young woman with bright auburn hair.

_Sansa._

She turned at her mother’s footsteps. A freckled, dirty, greatly changed face stared back at her, though unmistakably Sansa’s. Both women ran at one another, Catelyn not even bothering to choke back a sob as she pulled her elder daughter to her. Sansa was much taller than she had been, easily of a height with Catelyn now, and could look her in the eye without any effort. She was stronger, too. Catelyn’s embrace was tight, enough to squeeze the life from the unsuspecting or unprepared, and Sansa could now match her hold. 

“My girl, my sweet girl…”

“Mother, I missed you so much! I thought I’d never see you again…”

They sat there, holding each other, saying nothing for a long minute.

“But how?” asked Catelyn. “You were a prisoner… they held you captive… where’s Arya?” She couldn’t stop herself from simply letting all her questions spill from her.

“I was! Joffrey had them beat me and the queen was just awful, it was horrible! I only escaped because Sandor helped me!” Sandor?

After a moment of confusion at the familiar name, she noticed the fourth person in she and her children’s midst. He was a large man, armoured, dark hair spilling across a burn-scarred face. Though she recognised him immediately from the king’s visit at Winterfell, she would have known him by reputation just as quickly. This Sandor was Sandor _Clegane. The Hound!_

He was a fearsome giant of a man, yet if anything he looked positively pleasant. His posture was calm and relaxed, on his face a smile that gave no hint of the sneer he gave the last time she’d laid eyes on him. His eyes, or at least the unburned one, was strangely calm, his remaining eyebrow upturned.

Fear stabbed through Catelyn's heart at the thought of him even being near her daughter. She moved in front of Sansa protectively, trying to back her away. Sansa resisted, however, shoving back.

“He saved me! He swore to protect me, he won’t hurt us! Mother!” 

Catelyn stared at the man with every bit of the considerable venom she could muster. She wanted to spit in his face, but was too far for that. 

“Aye, I saved her. Stole her away in the dead of night, while the Blackwater burned,” said Sandor, looking into her eyes. There was no malice there, but Catelyn remained more than wary.

“He did, mother! He took me away, and he brought me here! He saved me and he brought me to you!”

“Mother, please,” pleaded Robb, putting himself between Catelyn and the Hound. “He abandoned the Lannisters and brought Sansa back to us. We need to thank him.”

Catelyn looked the Hound in the eye. “Why? You left the Lannisters. You were always their loyal dog before. Why did you take my daughter from them?”

He gave her an angry, then thoughtful, look. “Because fuck the Lannisters. They called me dog, treated me like one. I owe them nothing. Not sure about your daughter though. Maybe rescuing a young maiden was my duty as a knight.” He laughed lightly, smiling. Such a sound was strangely incongruous from the great beast of a man. 

She did not, of course, believe his words, yet he said them with a strange conviction. “You say a Lannister sworn shield-” 

“I took no vows to those golden shits!" the man spat. "I am sworn to your daughter now, to no one else." This took both Robb and Catelyn aback. Why would he swear to her? And what good were his vows anyway? 

“It’s true, mother, Robb, he did! He’s my sworn shield now!” insisted Sansa. She broke away from Catelyn’s grip and went to grab the Hound’s arm. He let her grab him, completely comfortable, as if she'd done so before. That was a thought Catelyn refused to entertain. 

_What is all this... The Hound, rescuing a Stark? My daughter, comfortable with him?_

Catelyn Stark was well and truly lost. No reason she could imagine would have made this most loyal of Lannister dogs voluntarily forsake them that he might become a sworn shield for the fourteen-year-old sister of his greatest enemy. No reason at all. It was baffling. Impossible.

He must be here to kill them. Ordered to bring Sansa back in order to get close to them. Then he’d turn on them and kill them, and possibly much worse. 

“You weren’t sworn to them?” asked Robb, incredulous.

“No I bloody well wasn’t. I followed them for pay, for steady work. I took no vows for them. I've had enough now, I’ll shed no more blood for the shits,” said the Hound, a look of menace returning to his face when he did. He spat.

“And you’ve said you aren’t here for reward, and my sister swore the same to be true. This is, at best, suspicious, you must understand,” said Robb.

“Please, Robb, he could help you! He could fight! He knows the Lannisters better than anyone!” Sansa looked up at the Hound hopefully.

Robb, in response, became pensive, regarding the Hound and his sister’s words silently. “He could… And news of his defection would prove a major blow to the Lannisters. Would you swear to serve us?”

The Hound looked to Sansa, still clinging to his arm. When she smiled and nodded, he said “Aye, I’ll serve, but I'll take no vows to anyone but Sansa.”

Sansa left the Hound to hug her brother. Catelyn watched, agape, struck speechless. They were _trusting the Hound!_ Allowing him into their household! How could they not see this folly? Letting a Lannister dog in their midst!

“Robb, don’t do this. Don’t trust him! He’ll betray us! And what'll the bannermen think? You with such a creature?” Catelyn pleaded, nearly yelling.

“I’m sorry mother. He has already helped our family immeasurably, bringing Sansa to us, and his future service could prove valuable. I must at least give him a chance,” said Robb.

“You foolish child,” she scolded, starting to tremble with anger and more than a little fear. “You have doomed us all.” She had not called him a child in a very long while, and knew well that he was very much a man. Turning to the Hound, she said “Where is my other daughter? Where is Arya? Why did you not bring her?”

“She wasn’t there. The Queen didn’t have her," he said, his tone flat. 

His words shook her. “Wha… where is she? Is she alive? Where!?”

“No one’s seen her since father died,” supplied Sansa, her own expression mournful.

“You know her, mother,” said Robb. “She’s wild, clever too. She’s probably alive.” Though he was outwardly reassuring his mother, his tone clearly betrayed that his words were as much for his benefit as hers. 

She knew he was almost certainly right, but Robb’s words did little to reassure her. This was all too much; Bran, vanishing from Winterfell, Arya from King’s Landing, _the Hound rescuing Sansa._

Her daughter wrapped herself then around Catelyn, holding her tightly once again. “I just got you back mother. I want to be happy. We’ll see Arya again, I know it. Can we please just be a family again? Can we please be happy?”

Her anger, her fear, her self-control and all her strength failed her in her daughter’s arms, abandoning her completely. She nearly fell, and would have had Sansa not held her. As it was, Catelyn simply held on, kissing Sansa’s forehead. “We can be a family again. Let’s go inside and get you a bath.” For Sansa truly, desperately, needed to take a bath.

 

Sansa

Sansa could’ve wept with joy. Robb was letting Sandor stay! She turned to smile at him as her mother led her inside. Sandor smiled back at her, knowing that she had kept her promise. She hadn’t left him behind, nor would she.

Behind them had gathered a large crowd, to see the appearance of a Stark and a Clegane. Many stared agape, some with open hatred at Sandor, but she paid none any mind.

Riverrun proved to be all she had wanted and more. It was a warm, triangular stone castle, built upon the Red Fork, full of beautiful views. It was not especially large, much smaller than Winterfell, but felt like a place she could call home. Servants bustled about; many giving curious looks as a girl with Tully features was led through the halls by Lady Catelyn Tully. Her mother brought her to a set of empty quarters, small but well furnished. I’ll get you a bath, then a proper gown, she had said. And so she had.

Stripping off the peasant gown and cloak she’d worn without much interruption for the last six and a half weeks was absolute heaven, though you wouldn’t know it from the smell. She felt so free in the water now; so warm, so safe, relaxed in a way she hadn’t been since leaving Winterfell. Sansa allowed her head to fall under the water, wishing she could swim about.

Looking sharply at her body for the first time in weeks revealed a good deal more change than was welcome. Her breasts had continued to swell, though not so quickly as they had been growing in King's Landing. The soft red fur which had sprouted between her thighs before the Blackwater had grown thicker, and more of a similar colour had started growing under her arms, though there was only a little of it. Less than plentiful food had left her rather thin, some bones now visible in places where they hadn’t been, and her ribs could be seen clearly when she sat or stood straight.

The thought of food made her tummy snarl like the wolves she’d heard howling the last few nights. It struck Sansa then just how hungry she was. She had broken her fast with only a few nuts and berries that morning, and her snares had not caught anything for a couple of days. Last night she’d had only a small trout to split with Sandor, and that day and the day before had yielded only three small fish. She would need a good meal, a proper meal, after leaving the bath.

When this Sansa finally did, it was only because the water had gone cold. Despite her hunger, she could’ve stayed for another hour or three or five, but alas the water was not so forthcoming. By then it had also turned a shade of rather sickening brown. It bothered not at all though; the more dirt and grime there, the less on her.

The gown she found laid upon her bed was a beautiful blue, cut modestly. It was fit for someone of shorter stature, though with a similar figure; she wondered who it had been made for. _What other young noble ladies are here? No serving girl would wear a dress like this, and it’s not mother’s._

As she was pulling it over herself, a soft rapping came upon the chamber door. “Sweetling?” called her mother’s voice.

“Mother! Come in!”

She did, smiling brightly. She held a hairbrush. Sansa reached up to touch her shortened hair, which had become – and remained – a tangled nest for more than one species of bird. She smiled at her mother in return, and pulled a carved wooden chair in front of the room’s long mirror. Her mother took her hair in hands and began to brush, as she had so often before.

The mirror revealed more changes. As Sandor had said, her face was now lightly freckled. It was shaped a bit differently, too. Her cheekbones were more prominent, as were the rest of her facial bones. This may have been simply a product of getting skinnier, she didn’t know.

Even shortened, the tangles on her head took a while to smooth out. They looked far better. By the time they were done her tummy was truly pressing the matter, making demands even her mother couldn’t ignore. With a slight laugh, she said “Come Sweetling. Robb and I wish to speak with you, and we’ll have some food brought.”

 

\-----

 

“Married!? To who?” asked Sansa, surprised. _My brother’s getting married. But he’s a king, I shouldn’t be surprised._

_A royal wedding! And it won’t be mine to Joffrey!_

“Margaery Tyrell,” said Robb. “His father promised alliance in exchange for making his daughter my queen.”

Even Sansa knew how powerful that would make Robb. The Reach was the richest of the Seven Kingdoms, and had an army of great size and quality. Margaery Tyrell was, she remembered distantly, the youngest child and only daughter of Mace Tyrell, sister to Ser Loras. She wondered if Margaery would look like him.

“When will the wedding be? Where?” she inquired excitedly.

“Here, in about a fortnight. The Tyrell party should arrive any day now.”

The world just kept getting more exciting by the moment. She had asked first of the Blackwater, and had been informed of Tywin Lannister’s last minute appearance and fatal injury, of Stannis Baratheon’s resulting defeat in the battle. Apparently, Lord Tyrion was now Lord of the Rock as well as Hand of the King. The Ironborn had invaded the North; this she knew, and apparently Torrhen’s Square was recaptured, even at great cost, which meant that the Rills and Moat Cailin remained under Ironborn sway. An attack had also been repelled at Deepwood Motte. 

Theon had dishonoured and been forced to marry a young Western noblewoman named Jeyne Westerling, whose dress it was Sansa wore. He hadn’t taken his father disinheriting him well, and Jeyne had comforted him. He actually seemed to like her, too, for more than her looks. She almost laughed at this. _Theon, married. And enjoying it. At least he won’t try to marry me._ As a result of the marriage the forces of the Crag now marched with the Starks. Lannister bannermen, marching with the Starks. 

And Bran was gone. Maester Luwin had said that he, Howland Reed’s children, Hodor, and Bran’s wolf were all gone. The mention of Bran’s wolf, and the sight of Grey Wind (now as big as a horse) sitting in the corner of Robb’s chambers sent a familiar pang of longing for Lady through her. She had felt it whenever the wolves had howled at night as well, but nothing could compare to the thought of having lost another sibling. Arya was gone; she’d been alone in King’s Landing. All alone. The sisters may not have gotten along much, but Sansa loved her sister with all her heart and would have done a great deal to have her back during her captivity. Arya might be alive, but she was lost. She might be almost intolerable at times, but Sansa wanted her sister. And to think her little brother was lost too? How was she to deal with all this?

And then there was to be a wedding, between Robb and a Tyrell. This was, of all of it, the most welcome news. Now, she had a fortnight to prepare for it, and only a day or two to be ready for their arrival. She was a princess herself now; she must look the part.

She had told them in turn much of what the capitol had to offer, from Joffrey’s torments and the Kingsguard to Sandor’s keeping her safe, from the Imp’s gentleness and of course Sandor’s rescue. This last part had been of great interest both to her mother and to Robb. When she told them about Sandor rescuing her against orders from the rapists on the day of the riot, both of them looked confused, and Robb had seemed to come to some kind of decision about something, but Sansa hadn’t asked what.

After all this was done, she found there was something she wanted to do very much. She wanted to meet Jeyne Westerling. Female companionship, companions of any kind really, had been denied her in the capitol. She wanted a friend, and to thank Theon’s wife for the dress. Her mother pointed the way, and she went to talk with Lady Jeyne.

 


	6. The Queen's Arrival

Sansa

She’d come to Riverrun only the day before, and the Tyrell party was already only an hour away.  The time since she’d arrived had been pure chaos: news, dress-fitting, settling in, time with her brother and mother, eating as much food as she could, meeting her Uncle Edmure another bath this morning, and meeting Jeyne (who was a shy girl, a couple of years older than Sansa, and very kind, eager to make friends. She had taken a liking to the lady right away), though Theon was not with his wife. Mother had made the young woman lady-in-waiting to the Princess Sansa, and was very eager in her pursuit.

Being called a princess had been a confusing experience for her; once, it would have been all Sansa could ever want, but all her notions of royalty were shattered now. Moreover, simple courtesy, her life’s guiding light, had been largely left behind for six and a half weeks, and no matter how brief her respite it felt like slipping into a different and not altogether comfortable skin to be so polite again when she’d been so free with Sandor.

She had not seen him since yesterday morning. Robb said he would remain with her, but he’d been busy with other duties, as had she. What would become of him? Would mother eventually accept him, or would she reject him the way she had Sansa’s half-brother Jon?

But she had more pressing things on her mind just then. With the Tyrell party about to get here, she would need to look her best. Jeyne had helped her into her dress, a beautiful grey and white gown, and was working on brushing her hair and getting what little of it she could braided when the knock came.

“Princess! The caravan is near! You are needed in the courtyard,” said the servant, whose name she did not know.

“Hells,” she whispered, almost inaudibly. Her time with Sandor had made her slightly less restrained, and she could now swear occasionally without reprimanding herself.

 _A couple minutes are all I need._ But time was not forthcoming; it stopped for no one. She had to go.

“I’ll just leave it loose, Jeyne. Thank you, you may go,” she said.

Jeyne nodded, curtsied, and left. Sansa gave her hair one more once-through to get it straightened out before heading to the courtyard.

She smiled to find Sandor already in the yard when she arrived. He wore Stark gray-and-white, much as she. He towered over the rest of the sentries he stood with, though it was not for this that many of them stared at him with undisguised loathing. Robb had, evidently, decided he was to be presented proudly, a new ally against the Lannisters, but his other guards obviously didn’t see things this way. They, like mother, saw him as a Lannister loyalist, and many likely had family that suffered at his hands. 

_They’ll like him better when they get to know him. He’s not evil. He’s a good man, the best I know._

It was not solely for his sake that the yard was quiet and tense, even if he was a part. The Tyrell party was approaching; their noise could be heard distantly now. Sansa couldn’t help but think back with sorrow to when King Robert and his family had come to Winterfell. _How naïve I was. I thought princes and knights were good and honourable. Now a lowborn not-a-knight is the most honourable man in the world._ Only a year and the world was so much changed. Now her brother sat at attention, not father. He and Uncle Edmure stood together in front of the rest of the group, with Grey Wind by his side. Mother stood with Sansa, looking tense and uncertain, undoubtedly remembering the King’s arrival as well. Behind them stood several of Robb’s bannermen, Theon and Jeyne, and several House guards, including the now highly focused and slightly agitated Sandor.

Movement and the sound of rapidly approaching horses brought her eyes back to the front of the courtyard, where she saw several knights with Tyrell sigils on their chests riding in. One, she recognised with a rush of excitement, was Ser Loras. Another was a fat, broad-shouldered man who must have been Lord Mace Tyrell. A third rode in beside them, and though Sansa did not recognise him, she knew by his looks that this must be Mace’s Son Garlan the Gallant.

Yet they were all three mere distractions compared to the Lady Margaery. Though Sansa had never met her, there was no one else this woman could be. She rode in on a horse, a beautiful white mare, and did so with effortless grace even Arya might be pressed to match. Long, lightly curled brown hair fell down upon her shoulders and across her chest. She was slender of frame, but Sansa could see already she was quite shapely despite this. _She looks just like Loras._ Margaery saw her then, giving her a warm yet curious smile. _She smiles like Loras, too._

A half a dozen men had ridden in after her by the time the wheelhouse pulled in through the gates. It looked similar in design to the one Queen Cersei had used when King Robert came to Winterfell for his fateful visit, but was smaller, and mostly green, though gold graced the trim. It drew up, and one of a pair of identical twin guardsmen got off his horse to open the door. Out of the carriage stepped, slowly, a very old white-haired woman with a cane, assisted by the guard. This could only have been Olenna Redwyne, the matriarch of the Tyrell family. The Queen of Thorns, she was called, for her sharp tongue. Sansa hoped she might not be as bad as all that. She was followed by a tall, dignified, silver-haired woman, who Sansa guessed to be Lady Alerie Hightower, Lord Mace’s wife.

The Tyrell party all eyed Robb’s wolf warily. “Welcome to Riverrun, My Lord,” said Robb, looking towards Lord Mace, with a stateliness Sansa was surprised to see her older brother use. He sounded like a lord. _No: a King_. The Tyrells all bowed, and those on horseback dismounted.

Lord Mace knelt, then rose, smiling at her brother. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, a strong voice coming from his large chest.

Robb nodded, before moving to introduce the household. “Lord Edmure Tully, acting lord of Riverrun.” Uncle Edmure bowed. “My direwolf, Grey Wind; my mother, Catelyn; and my sister Sansa.” The Tyrell party looked confused. They had evidently not been told of her reappearance.

Nor had they been told, therefore, of Sandor. It showed, too. Several of the Tyrell guards, and now the Tyrell family itself, had recognised him, and stared at him in confusion.  

Robb noticed the stares, and said of him that Sandor Clegane was responsible for rescuing his sister from the Lannisters. The Reachmen’s reactions were mostly to replace confusion with suspicion and wariness, as Sansa had expected, though confused and uncertain looks remained on many a face. There was, however, none of the hate and hostility that the Starks gave him. She breathed a sigh of relief. They might accept him more easily.

Lord Mace turned to introduce his own family. “My son, Garlan; my son, Loras.” Both men bowed. “My daughter, Margaery.” Lady Margaery curtsied, and gave a broad smile to both Sansa and Robb. Her smile was one of innocence but Sansa’s time in the capitol told her there was something knowing about it, as if her innocence was feigned. It may well have been. Robb looked at her and smiled, kissing her hand, and his smile was quite genuine. Sansa had seen this smile before. It was one of anticipation. _He likes her. I hope she likes me, if I’m to be her sister._

“My wife, Alerie; my mother, the Lady Olenna.” The Queen of Thorns gave her family, particularly her brother, an appraising look, as if judging their worth. Her face gave away nought else, returning to blank. She and Margaery both had a look of intelligence, though Margaery hid hers better.

“May I show you all to your quarters?” offered Uncle Edmure. Lord Mace nodded, and the rest of his family followed. 


End file.
